


The Harbinger

by hexburn (thestormapproaches)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Gore, Goretober, M/M, Mass Murder, Murder, Nature, Revenge, Songfic, Violence, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestormapproaches/pseuds/hexburn
Summary: Crows. Ravens. Wolves.And they're all on Anton's side, with his beloved werewolf boyfriend.So who wants to kill a king?Songfic based onFiddlesticks, the Harbinger of Doom.
Relationships: Juš "Crownshot" Marušič/Anton "RATIRL", Martin "Rekkles" Larsson/Rasmus "Caps" Winther
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	The Harbinger

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TAGS.
> 
> GORE. MENTION OF WOLVES EATING HUMANS. BLOOD. VIOLENCE. **DID I MENTION GORE.**
> 
> on a happier note, happy halloween!

_“It’s Hallows’ Eve tonight,” the wolf at his side croons. “And where shall we go this year?”_

“There’s a festival in the city to the northwest. Shall we go there, my dear?”

_“Wherever there is meat.”_

“Oh, Jus. There’s meat everywhere.”

_**When fields lie calm and wind stands still** _

Most villages in the area are wise, Anton knows. There are always a handful of survivors that escape the crows’ pecks to their eyes and Jus’s terrible claws burying into their skulls and chests, his sharp teeth taking the fill of meat he desires. Whether by concealment or the slight mercy Anton and Jus feel as their yearly bloodlust satiates, there are always a handful of survivors to warn the rest. Why, they’ve even made a song for him and his beautiful werewolf! How lovely.

Ah, but the city- that arrogant king- them and their walls and guards and the bonfires they light to celebrate, as though a man like Anton himself would ever fear a fire, as though they aren’t clever enough to use it to burn the city down- they do not fear.

Or at least, they pretend not to.

With a sick smirk, Anton cinches his armour tunic and enchants it with protection for himself, unnatural advantages that will make him unkillable by even the king’s best men, and he prays to his gods for a successful hunt tonight. Jus needs nothing but a thick blanket to keep himself warm on the journey - he hasn’t shifted yet, the moon isn’t high and powerful in the sky. For this particular year, Anton doesn’t even try to conceal his excitement as he packs a nice light dinner of bread and apples and a spare ribcage from the last "messenger."

Not like the poor lass needs it anymore, anyway. But of course, Jus will have to carry his own meal - Anton hates getting blood on his tunic before the true fun begins.

_**Run home...** _

_**Run home.** _

They set off at dusk.

The crows, ravens, and true wolves of the forest skulk after them, ready to take revenge on the ones who have killed their kind, destroyed their homes and eaten their families for food.

Ah, how the tables turn!

It’s enough to make Anton cackle with delight, and Jus to break into increasingly bark-like laughter.

_**As the crows make night of the fading sun** _

**_Hide now, hide now._ **

They arrive at the city gates, an army of enough crows and ravens to blot out the sun, if the sun were shining, but darkness has well past fallen upon the countryside, and more wolves than the eye can count. At the head of the pack stand Anton, now fully equipped with tunic, spells, a collection of potions and magical weapons and his perfectly-pointed hat dyed black with the blood of past frolics, and Jus, finally transformed under the power of a full Hallows’ Eve moon into a black wolf almost taller than Anton and with twice the breadth, jowls dripping with saliva as they near the feast. Anton runs a slim hand through Jus’s fur, then hops upon Jus’s back for better transportation. “Only minutes now, my dear.”

 _“Minutes? Oh, don’t tell me you’re making me wait! I can smell them already,”_ Jus snarls, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering firelight of the guards’ towers. Anton knows they won’t open the gates. It’d be nice if they could look, though.

He’s a gentle witch, after all.

Better to let them see what’s coming, no?

There! A movement in the western tower. A face, peering out over the edge.

Five ravens, fighting to snap up the first eyeball of the night.

And then- fire, the fallen guard’s torch, falling down amongst the wolves, illuminating ten thousand pairs of yellow-green eyes that shine in the darkness and one pair that glow with their own innate bloodlust and magic.

Anton shouts a spell that throws the gate wide open, and the wolves flood in, and the crows and ravens swoop down upon the rest of the few guards who were not allowed to participate in the night’s witch-mocking and God-fearing activities. A few of them stay behind to fight over eyes and tongues and ears - which, Anton must say, are quite an acquired taste, so even Jus happily leaves those for the ravens - but the rest hurry along, eager for the better bits of intestine they can tear into once the wolves have torn the bodies open.

As Jus stalks through the streets, Anton can’t help but look around from where he’s perched on Jus’s back. Most of these houses seem to be deserted. The wolves are sniffing around, picking up scents to track. Everyone must be at the festival.

Oh.

Not everyone, then.

A small girl - certainly not older than ten, perhaps younger even than that - peers out from a crack in a door that seems to function as a window.

Anton waves at her. Hopefully she won’t mind too much that the wolves are hunting her parents.

**_When the trees do bow, as if they weep_ **

As expected, there’s quite a ways to go, not in terms of distance but of how many winding streets there are. Clearly their king has no clue about urban planning. The wolves dart through houses and burst open doors on their ways to the city centre, where most people undoubtedly are.

In the distance, there’s a scream.

They’ve been spotted.

And, like the scream was a screeching signal, the crows and raven swoop in again, and all lights are extinguished in a matter of seconds by the flaps of black feathers, leaving only the red eyes of birds in the moonlight and the reflections in wolves’ eyes to warn the cityfolk of their impending murder. Excited by the scene, the screams, the smell of blood and spilled guts, Jus’s feet begin to prance under him, and Anton hops off Jus’s back. With a loving kiss to his cheek, Anton sends him off, and Jus goes to eat his fill.

Thankfully, no one has yet noticed the slight-of-frame witch with ivory skin. He’ll have plenty of time to sabotage the city, starting with a few basic potions Anton tosses into the air.

Oh, that fireball was not intended. But it works wonders on the dry thatching of the houses, running along the beams like a fuse and illuminating the carnage taking place. This, at least, will be helpful for him to spot each wolf and crow and raven as they fall, though most are perfectly safe. These arrogant city folk, so reassured of safety by their king and their city walls, have no weapons to protect themselves on a festival night. They go down rapidly, like deer pierced through the heart by one of their cruel arrows, though these men and women receive no such quick-death mercy.

Not at all.

Some of them clutch at him as they run past, trying to save him from the wolves. One man even tries to scoop Anton up and run with him. A silvery wolf puts a quick end to that, though not to the man, as she rips into his leg and feasts, treating the spurting blood like a delectable sauce. Anton throws the next one to grab him, a woman dragging her gangly teenaged son with her, against a nearby wall with the force of his own unnatural strength. They’re starting to realise he’s not one of them.

But the light of realisation dies with the light of life in her eyes. Perhaps the wolves are more merciful than Anton thought - one whose own son had been killed before her muscles her way to the front to rip the woman’s throat out, clawing through a breast as she does so and loosing a torrent of blood. At least this mother will not have to watch her child die.

And the child dies soon after, anyway, so really, no harm done at all.

Anton watches with indifferent eyes as the townsfolk collapse under wolves around him, and crows and ravens feast on the carcasses alongside the wolves. Everything is starting to stink, now, of opened intestines and blood and spilled stomach contents. A kettle of boiling water must have tipped, as well, because Anton can smell burning human flesh, though that might also be from the fires he’s lit that are currently spreading through the city. No matter. Anton lights a fresh torch for himself just in time to see a young boy get trampled by a stampede of humans trying to flee - the brains are good pickings for the birds, lucky little bastards. But the torch’s real purpose is to set more fires, and Anton uses his as such in between wafting the smoke below his nose to burn off the other nasty fumes.

Eventually he finds a good place to sit. Somewhere not exactly out of the way, since he wants to see all the action, but somewhere he can set up a clinic without getting in the way. One by one, wolves who have torn a claw in their overzealousness come to him for a quick patch, and birds whose efforts to snag one bit of especially rare delicacies have ended in sharp, bleeding pecks perch on his shoulders for a magic, healing kiss before they fly off again as though never injured. It’s a lovely, heartwarming sight, as is the revenge the wolves take upon the hunters and the birds exact upon loggers and farmers. Anton cannot indulge in this for too long, though.

He has somewhere - someone - to see.

And so, with a flickering green flare shot into the air to let Jus know that it is time, he makes his way to the king’s tower at the heart of the city.

**_Stay down..._ **

**_Stay down._ **

Anton has a score to settle, after all. Three assassins, four false messengers and one of Anton’s own paid to turn against him? Martin must think himself too powerful.

And all powerful men must die.

Admittedly, Anton feels a little sorrow for his brother and his brother’s husband. The small man with wide, childlike eyes and a throat that whistles and sobs as Jus tears it out, he’s done nothing wrong. Rasmus Larsson...

Anton lays a red rose, bloomed in the dead of fall, in Rasmus’s crushed and bloody throat once Jus finishes the job by cracking open his skull in Jus’s powerful jaws. Perhaps his angelic soul will be grateful for the courtesy. None other in this city of death has been granted such a privilege.

Then again, none other in this city is innocent. The children have destroyed nests, killed wolf pups and thrown stones at their mourning mothers. The mothers have shared proud stories of how many deaths their children caused and how great their lands, stolen from the Forest, are. The fathers have waged war against the North.

Today, they will learn what it is to lose.

But Rasmus has Anton’s fate, or what Anton’s fate would have been had he not run away as a youth to become ageless in the Forest of the North. The fate of marrying a king.

Anton’s pity is... acceptable, then.

He cranes his head to look at his brother. His brother on the throne. His aged brother, his brother who abandoned him, his brother whom Anton helped with spells for victory in battle-

His brother, whose life would end in a matter of years no matter what Anton did now.

But there’s a kind of retribution in it.

And if Anton will live forever, then let him at least commit this one true sin.

_**Though its light beckons forth, a melody calls out** _

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

“You’re the bitch that killed my husband,” Martin snarls, gripping the arms of his throne tensely. Ah, he doesn’t know Anton yet.

He laughs and pulls his hat off. Taking advantage of Martin’s shock and moving quickly, quicker than human eyes can see, Anton darts forward to stand in front of Martin and touches his wrists with a magic spell written in his fingertips, binding Martin to the throne. “Oh, no, no, that’s not me, that’s my lovely sweetheart, isn’t that, Jusi?” There’s something poetic about how Martin once lived for his throne, and now will die in agony on it.

_“His blood was sweet, Anton! Sweet, like tea with sugar! Can we visit kings for Hallows’ Eve more often?”_

“Oh, Jusi," Anton says softly, fondly shaking his head. "Come here, you’ve had a queen’s blood, yes?”

 _“Yes,”_ Jus answers with a bright shine in his eyes.

“Well, try a king’s and see which is better.”

Desperately, the king shakes and struggles in the invisible magic pinning him to his throne as Anton stands up from the king’s lap, and his blue eyes bulge grotesquely with the force of his attempts. “You can’t kill me,” he gargles, “you can’t kill me! You gave the Protection of the North, you can’t kill me, I’ll meet no violent end, you swore it!”

His tattoos glow blue with the violence of the magic within him. For a moment, Jus hesitates.

Anton merely snickers.

“Remember who put you on that throne, Martin Larsson,” he says softly, leaning in one last time as Jus’s breath ruffles the lavish robes draped over His Majesty’s frail, quivering, human body.

**“I am the North.”**

And with that, Jus shrieks with giggles like a hyena and a snap of Anton’s fingers is all the trigger he needs to rip open the king’s stomach, devouring the toned muscle of his stomach and the soft, fatty organs alike, grinding them into a red slurry in his mouth that oozes out until Jus licks his jaws again.

The king screams until Jus devours his diaphragm, as well, and then he has no breath left to scream with.

_**Too late...** _

_**Too late.** _

_“A shame he sent all those messengers to kill us.”_

“Protection given can be protection revoked.”

_“And protection revoked is death on the horizon.”_

“Perhaps I helped him too much and grew his arrogance too large.”

_“Perhaps power makes all paranoid.”_

“Or corrupt.”

_“Or mad.”_

“Are we mad, my love?”

_“No madder than he.”_

“But less so, at the same time.”

_“More capable of controlling it.”_

“Back to terrorising villages next full moon Hallows’ eve, I suppose.”

_“I look forward to our next dinner date, indeed.”_

“Are we mad, my love?”

_“No, we are full.”_

“Yes, we are full. Sleep, my dear.”

And now, home, in the comfort of their bed, the great black wolf begins to snore, and the slim ivory witch next to him curls up in their dark, warm blankets, and cuddles against the wolf’s side, waiting for his man to return to his arms.


End file.
